


The Secrets of Flight

by Geonn



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Clarke
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geonn/pseuds/Geonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Pole and Mrs. Strange find comfort in one another during their long enchantment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets of Flight

_"Arabella leaned forward and took her hand. 'Come! Fix your thoughts upon more cheerful objects.'  
Lady Pole looked at her blankly. She had no more idea how to be cheerful than to fly."_ \- Jonathan Strange &amp; Mr. Norrell, page 459

Emma Pole could scarcely stand to hear music of any kind any more. Even the most sprightly tune turned into a funeral dirge in her ears. Once she had loved to dance, she had delighted at the thought of attending a ball. That was ages ago. Several lifetimes, it seemed. As she circled the hall, the calliope music filling her ears, she saw another woman with a similar expression. Emma was obliged to dance with a man whose head sprouted leaves like a tree, his eyes as dark brown as two walnuts, and was taken completely around the room before she discovered the other woman again.

In Faerie, things were not always as they seemed. But Emma felt certain she had met this particular woman before. The stars in her dark hair sparkled, casting a light upon her face that she certainly wouldn't have had in England. Emma stared, trying to ignore the dress of diamonds to place the woman. As luck would have it, her memory was saved when the woman spotted Emma in the crowd.

"Oh! My dear Lady Pole!" The woman rushed through the crowd and clasped Emma's hands in her own. At the sound of her voice, the fog lifted and Emma knew at once that it was her dear Arabella.

"What in blazes...!" Emma said. She remembered Arabella's many visits to her drawing-room in an attempt to lift the cloud of melancholy that had settled upon her. Oh, how Arabella had talked. Of inconsequential things like gossip and fashion and the latest news of the war. Nothing much of substance, but a lifeline to a world long lost to Emma following her death. It was a kindness that she would never be able to repay, even if it all had been for naught.

Emma clutched her friend's hands and said, "Tell me you did not come here to rescue me!"

"Are you not imprisoned?" Arabella asked. She held Emma's hands tightly, ignoring the odd feel of Emma's three-fingered left hand.

"Yes, yes, of course," Emma said. She turned and scanned the crowd with an expression that bordered on disgust. "But I fear any attempt to rescue me would only leave you imprisoned as well."

Arabella shook her head. "It is too late for that, my dear. A gentleman with thistle-down hair spirited me away before I knew what was happening. I had been here for most of a night before it occurred to me that I ought to be elsewhere."

Emma embraced Arabella then, grateful to have a kindred soul here and distraught that someone as kind and innocent as Mrs. Strange should be held captive in this way. Arabella returned the embrace as the room moved around them, faeries and men and women pressing them from every direction until they were finally obliged to move with the crowd. Arabella put her hands on Emma's hips and took the lead, which Emma was only happy to allow.

Arabella danced Emma through the room with slow, sure steps. It was a dance, but only in the laziest sense. Arabella's feet barely moved, her upper body swaying with the music of the flute and the lyre. Though they hadn't stopped moving, Emma felt still for the first time since her arrival in the gentleman's hall. She laid her head upon Arabella's shoulder and closed her eyes. It was a respite from the constant demands on her and she felt the tension rising from her in waves.

When the dance ended - indeed, _if_ the dance ended - Emma took no notice. Once moment Arabella was leading her across the floor and she was actually dozing and the next she was being led to the far side of the room while a different waltz played. She opened her eyes and looked up into Arabella's eyes, and Arabella smiled. Emma tried a smile, but she wasn't certain if she succeeded. Arabella put her hands on the sides of Emma's face and kissed her cheeks, just below her eyes.

They were separated then, swept up by the shifting waves of the ocean they stood in. Emma found herself dancing with a tall, slender gentleman who danced frantically, never allowing himself to be at rest. Sweat shone on his face and, soon, Emma felt sweat upon her own brow and upper lip. Exhaustion crept in and she ignored the pain in her muscles as she was spun and twirled and dipped to the enchanted song.

Countless songs passed. Perhaps days passed as well; it was so difficult to tell when the view from the windows changed with the gentleman's passing fancy. They marched in parodies of parades, tromping through the halls of Lost-hope, but Emma didn't notice anything. She kept her eyes on the person directly in front of her and she made her feet do whatever that person's feet did. It kept her mobile, it kept her upright.

Sometimes the gentleman with the thistle-down hair indulged in a dance with her, and she was forced to be alert. If he thought her bored, he may have done any number of things to rouse her. God only knew what the result of that would be, and she was in no desire to discover it.

Seemingly years after their first encounter, Emma found Arabella again. She took Arabella's hand and they danced. Again, it was a slow dance with Arabella doing all of the work. She held Emma up and did most of the work. An allemande and then polonaise, the pavane and countless others so that she lost track. She put her hands on Arabella, solid and sure, a connection to her real life in this unending dream.

In the midst of the old measures, Emma lifted her head and looked at Arabella. She felt as if a muslin veil had been drawn across her face since her first arrival in this hellish palace, but it was drawn back when she looked into Arabella's kind eyes, and her heart rose, and her skin felt flush. It was like waking to the summer sun warming your bed after an endless winter. Emma drew her hands to Arabella's face, and Arabella laced her hands in the small of Emma's back.

Emma stood on tiptoes, her fingers spreading across Arabella's cheeks as their lips met. Tentatively, then eagerly. Arabella's breath was warm against her mouth and Emma parted her lips to let it inside. Their tongues met, and Emma nearly swooned. Arabella held her, kept her on her feet as always, and Emma's eyes drifted shut. The kiss ended, as Emma didn't know how to kiss for an extended period of time, but she immediately captured Arabella's lips again. Arabella returned the kiss, one hand sliding up Emma's back to pull her closer.

Emma was vaguely aware that they continued to dance through this all. No one took notice of their behavior; indeed, two women acting in such a way was hardly the most bizarre things to be witnessed in this place of magic and misdirection.

When they parted, Emma kissed Arabella's face. The corners of her mouth and her closed eyes. She kissed the tip of her chin and the end of her nose before their arms were disentwined and they were again pulled apart. Emma turned her head, eager to see where her dear Arabella had gone, but the crowd was too dense and their movements too manic to identify a single person.

There were times, between dances, when Emma found herself in Stare-cross Hall. The only difference between the two prisons was the face Stare-Cross had no music and that insufferable Mr. Segundus who took notes of the most inconsequential things. Surely he knew that her words meant nothing! The enchantment that prevented her from telling anyone of her predicament prevented her from saying anything but ridiculous stories of others who had been taken by the faeries. No wonder they sent her to a madhouse. She would have thought nothing less had it happened to anyone else.

Emma returned to Lost-hope soon enough but, for the first time, she found herself eager for the evening. She danced with the few who requested her company, all the while searching for the dress of blue diamonds and the dark hair sprinkled with stars. She nearly shouted with joy when she spotted Arabella, currently occupied with a man dressed all in green and white, and she forced her way toward them.

Arabella dismissed the man dressed like spring and took Emma's hand. They danced through the hall, Emma once again attempting a smile. Arabella spun with Emma and said, "I miss you terribly when you are not here."

Emma's meager smile vanished and she said, "I am always here."

Arabella shook her head, but didn't speak. It was not an argument worth pursuing. She guided Emma closer to the wall and said, "I have given much thought to our last dance. Perhaps our imprisonment here does not have to be an entirely dull affair."

"I have attempted to be cheerful," Emma said. "I fear I am incapable of it."

"Nonsense," Arabella said. They were by the wall now, and Emma felt the rough stones against her back through the material of her gown. "One only needs the proper motivation to be cheerful." She hooked her finger under Emma's chin, lifting her head for another kiss. Emma had never anticipated a kiss the way she did Arabella's. She closed her eyes and wet her lips, and Arabella pressed Emma harder against the wall as their lips met again.

Arabella's hands were on Emma's hips, but they trailed up over Emma's bodice to her breasts. Emma's thoughts went to Sir Walter, his ravenous hunger for her. Had this been his lips upon hers, she would have known precisely what to do. She would have parted her legs for him, drawn up her gown and petticoats, and then guided him forward. He would have taken what he desired at his own pace. But Arabella proved perplexing and unknown. How would two women hope to... what was the procedure? Emma broke the kiss and kept her eyes closed as Arabella trailed her lips down Emma's throat. "I have never..." she gasped, hands on Arabella's body and exploring. She lamented her absent finger; she wanted to cover as much space as she could, and the missing digit prevented that from happening. "Never even _considered_..."

"It's all right," Arabella said. "I have." She kissed Emma again, pressing their lower bodies together. Arabella took Emma's dress in her hands, drawing it up slowly to expose her stockings. The air of Lost-hope was cold, and Emma shivered, moaning into the kiss. Emma touched her tongue to Arabella's, reeling at the thought of it, how improper her actions were. But in a place like this, in a life like hers, impropriety was hardly her heaviest concern.

Arabella kissed the corners of Emma's mouth and then, bracing Emma against the wall, moved her hands to Emma's thighs. Arabella placed the backs of her hands on Emma's thighs, warming them before she slid higher. She put both hands against Emma's most private place, and Emma straightened her back against the wall. "Mrs. Strange," Emma gasped, closing her eyes.

"Lady Pole," Arabella whispered.

They kissed, the sound of their proper names still ringing in their ears, and Emma felt Arabella's fingers parting her folds. _Fingers,_ she thought. _Of course._ First one, and then a second, both of them moving so slowly. Arabella's kiss was more intense than her exploration, but the two combined made Emma feel as if Arabella were taking her over, filling her completely. And yet, the sensation made Emma remember what it was like to be herself for the first time in... oh, ages! She wanted to beg for more, but Arabella did not need instruction.

Emma felt two fingers inside of her, up to the second knuckle, and the sensation was indescribable. The fingers were crossed and, when Arabella moved her hand, the pad brushed against something sensitive and drew a whimper from Emma's throat. Arabella began to move her hand. It was similar to when Sir Walter was upon her, but infinitely different. Arabella's movements were slow, steady. Emma brought one leg up and pressed it against Arabella's side, moving her hips to give Arabella a better angle.

Emma broke the kiss and rested her head against the wall. Arabella continued to move her hand in gentle thrusts, growing bolder with each breath, Arabella's breathing now rough. Emma looked down, the bodice of Arabella's gown open to reveal her décolletage. Her breasts moved as she moved her arm, and the pale flesh shone with sweat. Emma wanted to sweep her tongue over those curves, to taste Arabella's exertion, to let it sit upon her tongue... Something brushed against her sensitive flesh... a thumb, and her clitoris, and...

"God!"

It was a howl, drowning out the revelry and the music, and Emma's hands became claws upon Arabella's shoulders. She felt as if Arabella was buried within her, muscles tight around Arabella's now motionless fingers. Emma finally sagged against the wall, breathless and exhausted, but enjoying the sensation now as opposed to cursing it. She leaned forward and Arabella guided Emma's head to her chest, stroking her hair and softly shushing her as her other hand massaged the inside of Emma's right thigh.

Emma turned her head and found her face inches from Arabella's cleavage. She kissed the warm flesh and, emboldened by Arabella's sigh, swept her tongue upward. She let Arabella's sweat, the sweat of sex, rest upon her tongue until the taste of it faded. She kissed the inner swells, licked up, and then looked into Arabella's dark eyes.

"Have I made this night more bearable for you, Lady Pole?"

"Quite," Emma said, her voice unsteady. "And I would much like to do the same to you."

Arabella smiled and kissed her. "Patience, my dear. Our absence will soon be noted. We should not delay much longer."

It was only then that Emma realized they were in a small alcove; protected from view by a pillar and an ancient, ratty tapestry. Her fear of discovery now gone, Emma put her hands on Arabella's face and kissed her hard, sucking her tongue before releasing her.

"Promise me we will do that again. As soon as possible. My dear Arabella..."

Arabella turned her head and kissed Emma's palms. "Of course. As often as possible. Whenever the melancholy becomes too great."

"Or as a preventative measure," Emma amended, desire making her voice thick. Arabella laughed, and Emma fought the urge to attach her lips to Emma's exposed throat, kissing and licking and sucking and, oh! How wanton she had become from a single climax. Her face was flush, her mind reeling. Emma clutched Arabella's sleeve. "And you will allow me a chance to... explore you as well?"

"Of course, my dear Lady Pole," Arabella said. There was a touch of sadness in her eyes. "After all, we seem to have all the time in the world."

Emma nodded and, for the first time, the prospect of more time in Lost-hope didn't fill her with dread and sorrow.


End file.
